Brain Dead Blues

by Matt Hayward

  With a grunt, Michael quickly raised his hands, clamping them around the creature's snout. He felt the jawbones work beneath his palms, trying to open, but he pressed harder. Those jaws shuddered like a mechanical toy, trying to pry themselves wide. The stress increased, shaking. Bloody bubbles appeared and popped from the beast's nostrils.

  Michael's skin crawled as cold, rough nails clawed up his right side. He needed to roll away, but to do that, he'd have to release his grip on the snout. He knew he had to think quickly. Or not think at all. Both had served him equally well in the past.

  Freeing his right hand, Michael promptly pounded the beast in its already broken nose and pushed all of his weight to one side. The Wolfman yelped and threw its head back, still holding Michael tight between its thighs, the pressure like a vice grip. Michael rocked from side to side, trying to free himself, but it was no use.

  Then the Wolfman slammed its face down. Michael screamed, bringing his hands up to grab at the monster's neck. He managed to get two fistfuls of fur and pulled with everything he had, keeping the creature's face inches from his own. Warm liquid dribbled from the beasts injured nose and continued to coat his face. All around them, the crowd cheered on.

  Michael's arms stuck out in veins from the force as the Wolfman's teeth came closer, its nose now pressed to his. It curled its lips back and hot saliva dribbled onto Michael's face. Its mouth opened freakishly wide, giving him a clear view of the hellhole within. He wanted to scream like a lunatic. Instead, he forced out, “Get the fuck off me!”

  The Wolfman's head jolted forward, its jaws snapping shut. At first Michael felt nothing, then slowly, his cheek began to burn. The resistance in his hands let up, the pressure gone. The Wolfman stood, shambling back to its full height as Michael sucked in fresh air and looked to the clumps of torn, greasy fur in his hands.

  Did that bastard just bite me?

  Fear flooded Michael's body. He wiped his palms shakily on the dirt to remove the oily hair and stood, putting his sweaty forearm to his cheek. He winced at the pain. With a whimper, he staggered about, not knowing where he was moving exactly, only knowing that he needed to go.

  Hands pushed from behind, forcing him back to the center of The Ring. Michael fell in the opposite direction, but the same thing happened again. Laughter came from everywhere. Eventually, Michael stood in the middle, confused, shaking, and feeling feverish. Ahead, The Wolfman watched on with those sickly yellow eyes.

  “He bit me,” Michael said, speaking more to himself than anyone else. A headache began to bloom behind his eyeballs. “He actually bit me…” He looked up. “That's all you wanted to do, Connolly? Bite me?”

  Then he doubled over as his stomach sloshed and cramped. He moaned before vomiting to the dirt. In his vision, blind spots danced and swayed. Wiping at his mouth, he forced himself to straighten back up. The crowd seemed to find all of this as amusing as a new circus act.

  “What are you all looking at? Huh? Are you all in on this?”

  Before anyone could answer, the Wolfman began to shudder. Michael backed away, and this time, the crowd didn't push him back. They were scared too. Together, they slowly paced away, not removing their eyes from the spectacle before them. It was an atrocity, but one that Michael couldn't help but watch. The King of the Gypsies was becoming human again.

  The creature's snout began to retreat into its head with a crunching, crackling sound. Its body slowly shrank, its weight compacting back to Georgie Connolly's previous state. Its stomach bulged outward, the girth returning as its hair shriveled and went grey. That black and pitted skin began to lighten, becoming more human by the second. The entire process lasted at least one full minute, and in that time, no one spoke. No one needed to. Michael had forgotten about the throbbing sting in his cheek. What they were witnessing was the stuff of fairy tales and fantasy. And yet, somehow, here it was, right in front of their eyes. No one, Michael noticed, had even remembered to run.

  Not even when Michael began to scream.

  Hot needles began jabbing at every inch of his body. The world seemed to spin, his head reeling from the pain. He fell to his knees and raked his fingers through the muck, dry-heaving and retching. It felt as if someone had taken a hatchet to his brain. All around him, people shouted in a blind panic.

  “What were you thinking, Georgie?” That voice, Michael recognized, belonged to his father. “You can't do it out in the open!”

  “It can't be happening already!” This time, it was Georgie speaking. His voice sounded as if he'd been on a weeklong drinking binge. “The shortest it ever took was with my Derry, and that took hours.”

  “It's a full moon, you bastard. And you're forgetting why Michael was called the Mountain. Oh, let it be on your head, Georgie. You've poked a sleeping bear.”

  Georgie scoffed. “How feckin' poetic is that? Bollocks, that's what it is. Lads, grab him and take him down to the tombs. He's in the pack now. That was the deal. He's ours.”

  The words drifted around loosely, as if in a washing machine, but some of them managed to stick in Michael's brain like flies to Velcro. He managed a gasp before another fit of agony shook his body. “What the hell are the tombs?” He asked.

  His father replied. “The tombs, Micky. This whole mountain is hollowed out with them. This vermin bastard and the rest of the Connollys have lived there for decades. But we had a deal, they were to stay in there on nights like this.”

  “Nights like this?”

  The searing pricks of pain once again shot through Michael and he shuddered. A rusted razor blade sliced across his brain. “Make some fucking sense, please!”

  “Full moon nights, son! They're lycanthropes! Werewolves!”

  “Enough!” Georgie roared. “Lads, get him below, now. The fever's burning through him quicker than I've ever seen. He'll be turned soon.”

  He's scared, Michael thought. The King of the Gypsies is afraid of me! He knows I'll rip them limb from limb if they can't get me down there in time.

  Michael began to laugh. “Try it, lads. This fucking disease is racing through me like a horse on coke. Let's see you get close.”

  Something began turning inside Michael's stomach, forcing him to clench his teeth. He tried to hide the pain from his face but his lip twitched intermittently.

  Bone moving, he thought. Dear god, that's my bones reforming… It's happening.

  A bead of sweat dripped from his nose.

  “You fuckin' do it, Georgie!” That was Willie the Lookout talking. “I'm not touchin' Michael the Mountain. Not a chance in hell.”

  Georgie stomped his foot. “Get the lads out of the tombs, then!”

  “They can't control themselves! You feckin' know that! You turn and take him down!”

  “If you think I'm putting myself through that again, you can think again, Willie! Not a fuckin' hope. Grab him by the arms and legs. Let’s go, now!”

  Michael whipped his head around, trying to focus on the men but they doubled and blurred. The edges of his vision grew black. Consciousness began to slip away as slopping and crunching noises filled his ears. These noises, he knew, were coming from inside of him.

  Screams.

  Darkness.

  Rage.

  These were the things that Michael was aware of. He could smell those bastards, rank and sour with fear. They were different from him. They ran away and yelled and smacked at him when he got close. His body felt like a solid cement brick, large and powerful. He lashed out at these pathetic creatures, hating them.

  They smelled of shit and looked like weak little ants. He knew he could destroy them. In fact, that's all he knew. And that was all he wanted, too – total elimination.

  He swiped, watching as body parts flew away, the coppery smell of blood flooding his mouth with saliva. He had to stop them screaming. That noise aggravated him to no end, like an unreachable itch.

  Howling, Michael ripped through the troublesome creatures. He wanted them gone. He needed this to end.


  And then it did.

  Cold, wet grass pressed against his cheek, and Michael rolled onto his back. A blanket of grey clouds covered the sky. Morning?

  Sitting up, he shivered at the freezing cold air. He was naked. His head throbbed and his stomach ached, as if he'd been on the world's worst bender. He closed his eyes and they twitched beneath their lids.

  I'm at the Hell Fire Club, he thought. There's no way that nightmare could've happened. They drugged me.

  He wanted to stay there, in the cold, his eyes shut. But he knew he had to look.

  Michael opened his eyes and scanned the clearing of the Hell Fire Club. Body parts lay scattered like the discarded toys of a bored child. Brown patches and chunks of god-knows-what littered every inch of the grounds. Even the walls of the Hell Fire Club itself were splattered in gore.

  “No…”

  He'd torn each and every one of them limb from limb. Even the King of the Gypsies.

  Michael tried to stand but his legs refused and dropped him back on his bare ass. He sighed and tried again. This time, slowly, he got to his feet.

  Shambling about the clearing, his stomach roiled at the shredded pieces of flesh. “Lucid dreaming,” he said aloud. “It's all a very lucid dream.”

  Then he began to laugh, jittery butterflies tickling his stomach.

  “Angie?” He shouted.

  No response… He'd never have hurt Angie. Never. She must have run. She was out there somewhere, with his child inside of her, scared and alone. Somehow, he decided, he would find her.

  Voices. Male voices.

  Michael moved towards them, past the decrepit Hell Fire Club and onto the bumpy earth out behind it. His breath ghosted away like fog. All around, the forest sat in silence, as if every living creature were afraid. Perhaps they could smell the disease coursing through his veins. Maybe they could smell the danger.

  Someone called out in a worn voice, “Micky?”

  A man-made footpath lead downwards through the dewey grass, and Michael followed it, his bare heels icy and wet. He knew where it led. Ahead, the entryway of the tombs that lay carved within Montpelier Hill came into view. The entrance was blocked by long iron bars, and behind them lurked only darkness. Those tombs were sealed off from the public, Michael knew, because they were in danger of caving in at any point. But now he saw they were sealed for a whole other reason.

  This is no dream.

  A face appeared in the space behind the bars, dirty and haggard. Michael recognized the man instantly. He looked so much like his brother, after all.

  Derry Connolly smiled. “You did it, Micky? You killed them all, eh? Plan didn't go as it was meant to, then… My Da might have been tough, but he wasn't much in the brain department. He should have taken you down here and did it in the darkness. We told him to. But he wanted to make a show of you. Backfired on him, didn't it?”

  “Where are Sean and Patrick?”

  “Sleeping. I'm sure you've felt it, yourself. When that disease goes through you, it knackers you out. They'll be asleep until noon. I would be too, if I didn't hear you calling out.” Derry chuckled, slacking against the bars. “Cold out, eh, Micky?”

  Michael swallowed, his throat bone-dry. “So you all live down here? In the tombs? The whole Connolly clan?”

  “Better than a caravan, that's for sure. Me Da was meant to have you down here and locked up before the night was over. But I'm guessing there's nobody left?”

  “No.”

  “So… Why not let us out? Help you clean up that mess you've made. People will be up here soon. Hikers, all sorts… Maybe even the Garda? Come on… My da had the keys on him. They must be up there somewhere. Wouldn't take you ten minutes. Let us help you.”

  “I don't need any help.” Michael turned and started up the pathway. “If the Garda do come, they'll find three naked men locked down in the tombs, rambling about a werewolf. Doesn't sound like they'll be looking for another suspect.”

  “Michael? Ah, come on now.”

  “See you on the other side, Derry. I've got business to attend to.”

  Derry shouted after him, sounding like a crazed animal, and Michael smiled. At the clearing, he removed a black t-shirt and jeans from one of Georgie's men. The t-shirt felt greasy with either sweat or dew, but fine otherwise. The clothes fit just fine. After dressing, he searched for the keys of his bike and found them beside his shredded pants. With that, he started down the mountain.

  Angie was out there somewhere. She had to be. He'd never hurt her. That meant his kid was out there, somewhere. And all he wanted was an explanation, and to one day see that child's face. He deserved that much. Hell itself couldn't stop him.

  Michael kicked his Triumph into gear and set off towards Dublin city. Behind him, the woods came alive.

  Swan Song Of Robert Enslin

  Review taken from “Like It Loud” magazine, January 1996:

  “The most recent offering from Pennsylvania-based Slow Grind is their twelve track, independently released studio album, State Of Mind. A triumph of modern rock laced with blues, this monster record is guaranteed to turn heads on the live circuit. Built upon a thunderous, tight rhythm section, composed by DeLong bothers Andy and Sam, this album does not let up from start to finish. And while stand out tracks such as 'Pushed Too Far' see vocalist, Gary Richardson, soar up the octaves with his whiskey-ridden voice, the real treat on this juggernaut is hearing guitarist Robert Enslin rip out a solo. Although staying primarily in the predictably stale minor pentatonic, Enslin manages to put a jaw dropping twist on such an old thing that you need to hear it to believe it. You can catch Slow Grind live at Jacob's Bar & Lounge this Saturday the…”

  Robert lowered the magazine from his face and looked to Gary.

  He laughed. “God damn it. If only these good reviews reflected our financial state, huh?”

  Gary nodded. “Same shit, different day, man.”

  They had been driving for a little over an hour now, speeding down the highway on their way to the last show of the week. The radio in the old van (a present from Gary's dad when they put out their debut release) had gone bust a week before, and only the sound of an occasional car whizzing by punched the silence.

  “Got to stop doing these freebies, dude,” Gary said, eyes not leaving the road. “At least if we can manage to flog a few copies of State Of Mind, we'll just about cover our gas. If we're lucky.”

  They pulled into Jacob's just as it started to rain. The van's heavy tires splashed through a black puddle as they parked. Heavy drops tapped at the roof and the engine ticked as it cooled.

  Sam and Andy pulled their jackets over their heads to run inside to the bar and ask about a back entrance so they could unload the equipment. Gary and Rob stayed in the van, watching the raindrops race down on the outside of the windshield. They sat for a while in that comfortable silence that only old friends are capable of.

  “Another line of shows finished…” Gary said, opening his door. “Well dude, let's rock and roll.”

  A little over an hour later, they stood on stage. Plugging into his Marshall stack for the third time that week, Robert smirked as all the burdens of everyday life melted away like snow under blistering heat. He swelled the volume knob on his guitar as air from the speakers pushed at his back. Andy stood to his left, and Robert eyed him a wink. This is where he belonged. With his friends, on stage. He was born to do this, had known it from the very first time he'd picked up his dad's old parlor acoustic in the attic when he'd been twelve years old.

  He, Gary and the DeLong brothers all belonged here. Music coursed through their collective blood, and they knew they were powerless to do anything about it. You either had it or you didn't, and boy did they have it.

  The blinding stage lights lifted, and Robert basked in their neon glow, eyes shut. The unseen crowd cheered, and as the noise grew and washed over him, a chuckle rose to his lips. Home.

  From behind, Sam clacked the drumsticks, counting into 'Pushed Too Far', the lead
single off the new release. For the next hour, the four friends were in a world of their own. A world they had created together. A place where they could momentarily transcend the troubles of everyday life, if only for a short while.

  After the show, Gary said he'd pull the van into the alleyway around back, while Andy, Sam and Rob packed up their gear.

  Robert's cables had tangled themselves into a Chinese knot and he pulled them apart as the odd crowd member approached the stage.

  “Fucking sweeeet playing, man!” A drunk man pointed to Rob, spittle flying from his mouth. “Danananana!”

  He began playing air guitar while swinging his head.

  Great, Rob thought, not awkward at all. He politely smiled and nodded to the man, all the while making his way around him towards the back door, his bag slung on his back. His smile dropped as soon as he passed. Catching up to Sam and Andy at the fire exit door, he chuckled.

  Sam winked. “Could do without that every show, huh? Oh well, that's the price you pay for being a rock star.”

  The brothers clapped him on the back as they stepped out into the hissing rain. A cold rush of air made Robert sigh as it blew his sweat-slicked skin. He closed his eyes and tilted his head, greeting every drop with a satisfied groan. Ahead, Gary climbed out of the van, banging the door closed.

  “All right, let's get it loaded, ladies.” He tossed the keys from one hand to the other. “Nice turnout tonight. Shame we only got five albums sold. At least that covers our fuel.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said from the side of his mouth, lighting a cigarette. “Not a bad show at all.” He blew smoke from his nostrils, making him look like an angry cartoon bull. Robert laughed. His smile faded when somebody spoke from down the alleyway.

  “No, not a bad show at all, little dude.”

  The four of them turned. A skinny man with long hair stood in the mouth of the alley. He approached, his shadow elongated and falling behind him. He had a happy hippy stride, head bopping and swaying. His boot heels clicked pleasantly on the blacktop, and in one hand, Robert spotted a battered, leather guitar case. Coming into the light, the man's toothy smile appeared from his long grey beard. He's stoned, Robert thought. The 'crow's feet' around his eyes gave him away.